Somehow—against all logic—I was alive.
I rubbed my eyes, then touched my mouth, my throat, testing. No fresh blood. Just soreness. The voice was fragile but present, as if it might shatter if I pushed it too far.
Yannis’s hand tapped again, more urgent now.
I reached for him and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, fingers tangling in soft curls. “Hey, sweetheart,” I murmured. “I’m okay.”
The lie came out gentle.
He didn’t sign right away.
Instead, he climbed onto the bed with awkward urgency and pressed himself against my side, small arms wrapping tightly around my waist.
His grip was fierce for someone so little—as though letting go would undo me completely.
I wrapped both arms around him and held on.
The heater hummed in the corner, glowing orange, radiating warmth that seeped slowly into my bones.
Someone—Petros, probably—had turned it up high while I slept, as if heat alone could undo hypothermia and terror.
Yannis finally pulled back enough to sign.
His fingers moved quickly, clumsy with emotion.
I was worried when I didn’t see you.
My chest tightened painfully.
I smiled, careful and small, testing my voice again. “I was... on a date with your dad.”
The words tasted strange in my mouth.
His brows furrowed deeply.Did he like you?
A laugh almost escaped me—but it caught halfway and softened into something quieter, almost sad.
“Your dad... and I... we only just met yesterday,” I said, voice trembling slightly. “You... you’re the reason we got married so suddenly... as strangers.”
I reached out, tapping his nose lightly. “I... I think it’ll take time. Time for us... to understand each other... to really get to know one another.”
Maybe even forgive.
Maybe never.
Yannis considered this with the seriousness only children could muster. Then he nodded once, solemn.
He opened his mouth.
The effort was visible—throat working, lips trembling as he forced sound past habit and fear. The words scraped out slow and halting, as though each one had to be pulled free.
“I miss my mom.”
Four words.
Four knives straight into my chest.
I’d read the autopsy reports years ago, hidden deep in old articles and court documents—Maria Baranov, butchered, eight months pregnant. The unborn child stabbed through the tiny chest while still inside her. A brutality that made my stomach turn even now.
